conservatory’s potted palms, with stars studding the sky outside and the sea crashing against the cliffs below. His overwhelming urge was to take advantage of the exotic setting to kiss Ms. Dawes senseless. Instead, he was doing his damnedest to get her to incriminate herself. Grimly, he plowed ahead.
“Have you thought about getting back at Kent for all he’s put you through? May still be putting you through?”
“God, yes!”
The vehemence sent a sudden chill through him, icing his veins. The rueful shrug that followed started a slow thaw.
“But I tried that once and failed dismally.” She gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. “I can be pretty stubborn at times, but I’m not into self-flagellation or masochism. I decided before I left for France that I wasn’t going to beat myself up over Congressman Ashton Kent any longer.”
She slanted him a sideways glance and hesitated a moment before adding shyly, “You reinforced that decision, you know.”
“Me? How?”
“By coming to my rescue the way you did. By giving me a glorious afternoon in the sun and two nights like this. But mostly, by reminding me not all men are like Kent.”
Cutter’s conscience started to squirm. He’d done exactly what he’d intended to do. Isolated the woman. Made her dependent on him. Gained her trust. So why the hell was he now feeling like a world-class heel?
“Don’t pin a halo on me, Mallory. Kent and I have more in common than you think. You don’t know how hard it was for me to keep my hands off you this afternoon.”
“There’s one significant difference,” she said quietly. “I want your hands on me.”
Sweating now, he was reminding himself of all the reasons why he shouldn’t take her up on her starry-eyed invitation when she drifted closer.
“I liked touching you, Cutter.”
He managed to resist until she dropped her gaze to his mouth.
“And I liked kissing you.”
Well, hell! He’d never made any claims to being a saint. What’s more, he’d given her fair warning.
Slamming the door on his conscience, he did what he’d ached to do earlier that afternoon. His arm snaked around her waist. His stance widened. Cradling her hips against his, he tunneled his free hand into her hair to hold her head steady and took what she offered.
The desire that had bitten into him earlier didn’t compare to the hunger her eager mouth and hands now roused. Tightening his arm, he crushed her lips under his, as if daring her to unleash the beast.
Mallory slid her palms up the lapels of his jacket, felt his muscles straining under the suede, and surrendered to a rush of mindless pleasure.
This was the way it should happen. This was the way it was supposed to be. Desire feeding desire. Heat stroking heat. No politics. No sexual power plays. Only his mouth greedy on hers and her hands frantic to burrow through layers of fabric to get at the hard contours beneath.
She had to smother a curse when the rattle of wheels announced the arrival of Madame Picard and her serving cart. Cutter wasn’t as restrained. With a muttered expletive, he released her and rolled his shoulders to settle his sport coat while Mallory tugged down the jacket that had ridden up over her hips.
They weren’t quite quick enough. Madame Picard’s glance went from one to the other as she rolled her cart across the tiles.
“You wish me to serve dessert?”
“That’s okay,” Cutter said, taking charge. “We’ll serve ourselves.”
With a smile and a small bow, madame departed. The interruption hadn’t lasted more than a few seconds. Just long enough for reason to prevail…if either of them was inclined toward reason.
Mallory certainly wasn’t. After so many weeks of doubting herself, of hiding behind sunglasses and avoiding men’s glances, she reveled in the heat in Cutter’s eyes when they whipped back to her. Her pulse skipping, she scooped a two-tiered plate from the cart.
“I’ve got the chocolate truffles and
“Have you thought about getting back at Kent for all he’s put you through? May still be putting you through?”
“God, yes!”
The vehemence sent a sudden chill through him, icing his veins. The rueful shrug that followed started a slow thaw.
“But I tried that once and failed dismally.” She gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. “I can be pretty stubborn at times, but I’m not into self-flagellation or masochism. I decided before I left for France that I wasn’t going to beat myself up over Congressman Ashton Kent any longer.”
She slanted him a sideways glance and hesitated a moment before adding shyly, “You reinforced that decision, you know.”
“Me? How?”
“By coming to my rescue the way you did. By giving me a glorious afternoon in the sun and two nights like this. But mostly, by reminding me not all men are like Kent.”
Cutter’s conscience started to squirm. He’d done exactly what he’d intended to do. Isolated the woman. Made her dependent on him. Gained her trust. So why the hell was he now feeling like a world-class heel?
“Don’t pin a halo on me, Mallory. Kent and I have more in common than you think. You don’t know how hard it was for me to keep my hands off you this afternoon.”
“There’s one significant difference,” she said quietly. “I want your hands on me.”
Sweating now, he was reminding himself of all the reasons why he shouldn’t take her up on her starry-eyed invitation when she drifted closer.
“I liked touching you, Cutter.”
He managed to resist until she dropped her gaze to his mouth.
“And I liked kissing you.”
Well, hell! He’d never made any claims to being a saint. What’s more, he’d given her fair warning.
Slamming the door on his conscience, he did what he’d ached to do earlier that afternoon. His arm snaked around her waist. His stance widened. Cradling her hips against his, he tunneled his free hand into her hair to hold her head steady and took what she offered.
The desire that had bitten into him earlier didn’t compare to the hunger her eager mouth and hands now roused. Tightening his arm, he crushed her lips under his, as if daring her to unleash the beast.
Mallory slid her palms up the lapels of his jacket, felt his muscles straining under the suede, and surrendered to a rush of mindless pleasure.
This was the way it should happen. This was the way it was supposed to be. Desire feeding desire. Heat stroking heat. No politics. No sexual power plays. Only his mouth greedy on hers and her hands frantic to burrow through layers of fabric to get at the hard contours beneath.
She had to smother a curse when the rattle of wheels announced the arrival of Madame Picard and her serving cart. Cutter wasn’t as restrained. With a muttered expletive, he released her and rolled his shoulders to settle his sport coat while Mallory tugged down the jacket that had ridden up over her hips.
They weren’t quite quick enough. Madame Picard’s glance went from one to the other as she rolled her cart across the tiles.
“You wish me to serve dessert?”
“That’s okay,” Cutter said, taking charge. “We’ll serve ourselves.”
With a smile and a small bow, madame departed. The interruption hadn’t lasted more than a few seconds. Just long enough for reason to prevail…if either of them was inclined toward reason.
Mallory certainly wasn’t. After so many weeks of doubting herself, of hiding behind sunglasses and avoiding men’s glances, she reveled in the heat in Cutter’s eyes when they whipped back to her. Her pulse skipping, she scooped a two-tiered plate from the cart.
“I’ve got the chocolate truffles and
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